Predators
by hbrackett
Summary: Its the werewolves versus a true psychopath.  This is one of the scariest OC's I have ever created.  Please let me know if you think I should continue!
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Thought this might be an interesting story, basically Psychopaths versus Werewolves. Not sure if it is worth pursuing (i.e. if it is something people will want to actually read.) Please let me know in reviews if it sounds interesting and would like me to continue. If it sucks, I'll take it down, no hard feelings.

Malcolm (or Mal, as he preferred to be called) got off the school bus for his first day at Beacon Hills High. He wondered how long it would be before he was forced to take it apart. Three schools so far had regretted the day they ever let him in their doors. Three obnoxious bullies regretted the day they went out of their way…_expended energy_…to try to make him feel miserable. They eventually found out with whom they were fucking. Even the teachers learned, eventually.

He started towards the class, his expression neutral, his eyes blank. It was no fun if he actually gave them something to start with, the effort to antagonize had to come completely from them.

A silver Porsche pulled up into a spot that Mal had been standing in a mere second before. Mal ignored the beeping of the driver, not caring if the guy actually knocked him over with the car. That would unchain the beast completely. Anything that happened would be the drivers own fault.

Some kid with ridiculous good looks hopped out of the car, red faced and furious. He stalked up to Mal and "got in his face".

"Watch where I'm driving, douche." He snapped.

Mal assessed him in a way that would have made a psychoanalyst proud.

Porsche, hair, clothes, attitude.

Meaning-

Wealth, narcissism, vanity, insecurity.

Almost too easy a target, how boring. This guy could self-destruct if left on his own. "Pedestrians have the right of way. Hit one…and pay the consequences." He said evenly.

Jackson was caught unawares by the dead look on this new kid's face. He was thin, twerpy looking, but that face held zero fear, only contempt for everything it saw around him. The 'predator' sense that most bullies have that lets you know when someone is a viable victim in fact warned Jackson that he might be out of his league. The steady, expectant gaze was creepy.

Jackson's fist came up, trembling to knock some teeth in. _Don't do it._ said his inner advisor. The fist went back down. Jackson settled for a scowl and walked away.

Mal shook his head. It had almost been an interesting morning.

Sitting in his first class between two nerdy types, one seeming to be more athletic than the other, Mal opened his notebook and prepared to hear a lecture that meant absolutely nothing to him. His gaze wandered off while his pencil absently took the notes, a technique he had taught himself years before. He was assessing the classroom. Typical assortment of girls from the unattainable to the desperate. He spotted the teen queens almost instantly. A red-haired girl named Lydia, and some brunette named Allison. Hmm, Allison had an air of uncertainty about her. That meant she was new too.

The nerdy types were a kind of spastic kid named Stiles that Mal took an immediate and extremely unusual liking to, as if he had found a kindred spirit. Rare, that was. The more athletic type was Scott. Intriguing, as he seemed not to know himself where he fit. Also, a glimmer of 'like', the closest he came to having feelings. Well, the good ones. What a day this was turning out to be. The creep's name was of course "Jackson Whitmore". Straight out of a tv show.

Stiles kept coughing in his throat, and Mal recognized it as a warning. He looked up in time to see Mr. Franklin, the mathematics teacher standing by his desk glaring at him.

"This is your first day, Mr. Drake, and yet you are paying attention to absolutely nothing I am saying, I assume that you already know more than we, and can demonstrate this. Please solve the equation on the board."

On the board :

(-8m2-3m+3) - (-2m2-5)

Simplify

Jackson laughed under his breath, and there were some giggles throughout the class as well. Mal detected that he was being evaluated…new kid…possibly stupid or weak. Victim?

Not bloody likely.

Mal got up and went slowly to the board, taking a piece of chalk. Five seconds later he finished.

On the board under 'Simplify', Mal had written: -6m2-3m+8

The class quieted down. Even Jackson was impressed. Mal turned and gave his flat stare at the teacher, wanting him to look into Mal's eyes and see the empty spot where his soul used to be.

Mr. Franklin stuttered when he responded, his face going red. "Y-you didn't show your work."

Putting all the contempt he could into his voice, Mal said "Why should I show _you_ how I did it?" The class gave a collective gasp.

Then he sat down at his desk. Stiles said in a low whisper "That was so righteous my man!" Scott gave him a look of envy. The teen queens were now re-assessing him. 'Get used to doing that, ladies. By the time you REALLY figure me out…it will be way too late.' Mal thought.

Allison, who had been looking at Scott with interest ever since he gave her the pen she didn't ask for, suddenly shifted her attention to Mal. There was definitely something about him. Scott's noticed the shift, and his eyes turned yellow as he turned to regard the new kid with the first hint of jealousy. Mal looked up, as if sensing another predator, and turned to give Scott another glance. Scott looked down and pretended to be intensely interested in his math book.

Mal did not have any more run ins with teachers or students for the rest of the day, but did take the time to thank Stiles for his warning.

"No problem, bro. You handled it just fine. Wish I had those smarts."

"You do. You just don't know it. Most people have no idea what abilities they have."

Stiles gave a look over at Scott who was busy at his locker. "Yeah, I get what you mean."

"One day, Stiles, you will realize that all the walls people put up around themselves that define what they can or cannot do…are just simply _not there._"

Mal walked away, leaving Stiles to contemplate this unexpected pearl of wisdom.

The next morning in Franklin's math class, the children arrived to find Franklin in an agitated state. He kept pulling at a padlock someone had attached to his teacher closet.

"Lose your combo, Mr. Franklin?" asked Lydia.

"This IS NOT my padlock! It has a built in lock, no one uses the hasp for padlocks anymore. Someone is playing a practical joke!"

The kids finished taking their seats. Mal was the only one who looked just mildly interested in the teacher's dilemma. At length, the janitor walked in with a large pair of clippers, and removed the offending lock.

"Finally!" shouted Mr. Franklin. He turned his key viciously in the closet's internal lock and yanked on the heavy closet door…which promptly fell on him, knocking him to the ground. The hinges had been removed.

Class was cancelled, and the students were given a free period while Mr. Franklin saw the nurse and filled out workman's compensation forms.

Stiles and Scott were sitting together, and as Mal walked by he gave them a questioning look. Stiles gestured to come over, while Scott gave him a not-so-subtle jab in the ribs for doing so. It took Mal all of a second to figure out where the hostility was coming from. He had earned the interest of a girl that Scott liked. Easily solved. Mal wondered exactly which one it was so he could relieve the young man's anxieties. He had no wish for unearned dislike. He always liked to earn it completely.

"I have no interest in dating any of the girls in our class." he said.

Stiles looked at him, openmouthed. Scott looked guilty.

"Uh, okay. Thanks for the intel. There's this guy Danny that…"

Mal laughed, surprising himself. "Let me rephrase that. No interest in dating."

Scott's expression did not change, but Mal detected a slight relaxation in his posture. Good.

"How about you two? Got your eyes on anyone?"

"I like Lydia, Scott likes Allison." Blurted Stiles. Another elbow jab from Scott. "She left her notepad in class. Maybe if I give it back to her, she'll notice me." Stiles held the pink notepad as if it were the Holy Grail.

"I am something of a relationship expert. If either of you ever need some friendly advice, let me know." Stiles looked thrilled at this, while Scott rolled his eyes. Mal sighed. He was losing Scott, and that was too bad. Oh, well.

"What you said about the 'walls not being there'. What did that mean?" asked Stiles. No doubt he was thinking about the impossibility of getting Lydia Martin to go on a date with him.

"Well, what is preventing you from…getting what you want? List the obstacles, and lets see if we can remove them." Mal asked.

"Um, Lydia doesn't know I'm alive. She's with Jackson. He's rich and talented at Lacrosse. She goes for that stuff."

"Lydia seems to think very highly of herself, but her relationship with Jackson is calculated for appearance's sake. No emotional attachment. He fails because he puts up with her. You can succeed where he failed by seeing more clearly into her than anyone else. Her secret self. Deep down where she thinks she is undeserving of real love, and needs someone to call her on it. Captivated by anyone who is immune to her charms, she will be drawn to you."

Scott had enough.

"Okay, first of all, how do we know any of this is true, and if it is, then how do you know it? This is your first freaking day here!"

"I know it because Lydia is not exactly…unique in her perspective. Again, I have experience in this. Try it out. If it works, then you know I'm telling the truth. In fact, if either of you were girls, it would work equally well on Jackson. They are kind of like twins, deep down."

Now both boys were open-mouthed.

"I'm gonna try it." said Stiles.

"Fight your instincts to please her. You almost have to kill your own feelings to awaken hers. But don't kill them so completely that she bores you once you get her. A neat trick, that."

Stiles went over to talk to Lydia.

"You really think this will work?" said Scott to Mal, looking at Stiles sadly.

"What concerns me more is that Stiles figure out why he is attracted to such a trainwreck. He wants validation from a person who doesn't want to give it to him. What does that say?"

Scott had no answer.

Stiles walked by Lydia, and said "Here's your notepad."

She took it before giving him a condescending smile.

"How sweet." Then she turned back to Allison.

Stiles snapped his fingers in her face. She looked up, startled and…unsure? Lydia?

"Hey. The human response is 'Thank you.' Next time, put a tracking device on it. I'm done playing fetch." Then he returned and walked back to the boys.

"Mal, what the hell did you make me do? She hates me, I can tell?" moaned Stiles. He had managed to keep his composure until he was out of her earshot.

"10, 11, 12…Twelve seconds. When was the last time she looked at you for twelve seconds straight, Stiles?"

"If you put all of the time she has ever looked at me together, it wouldn't make 12 seconds." Stiles mumbled.

"Until now. Watch for the over the shoulder look."

The three watched Lydia walk back into the building. At the last second, she gave one quick backward glance.

Scott and Stiles were speechless.

"And that is why I don't date. It's like playing both sides in a checker match."

"Okay, you are our new best friend." Said Stiles dreamily.

The hair on the back of Mal's neck stood up…there was another predator around. His heart rate picked up with excitement. This was very rare. Looking around, he quickly spotted a leather jacket wearing older teen watching them with a burning gaze.

"Who's Leather Jacket guy?" asked Mal, yawning to show only mild interest.

"Derek Hale." Said the boys together without looking around. They knew him, well. For the first time, it seemed he had competition.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek approached the boys. He was irritated that they had a stranger with them when he needed to talk.

As he got closer, he felt himself involuntarily tensing, and he looked around, trying to spot where this feeling was coming from. He almost felt like someone was about to attack.

"Scott, Stiles. I was hoping to get you guys alone. There are things we have to talk about."

"I'll see you guys later." Said Mal, getting up.

"Mal, you can stay. What is it, Derek? Christ, I'm at school. Can't I get a break from all this we-" Scott stopped when he saw Derek's eyes blaze. "Weird stuff?"

"Okay, my house. After school." Derek walked off.

There was definitely some drama at this school. From the edginess of their voices, it was likely serious. Mal resolved to ransack the Internet the first chance he got. He was willing to bet a fair amount that he would strike a gold mine with Derek Hale.

Mal went back to the house during lunch. No parents to worry about, it was just him. Legally emancipated as an adult after his mother and stepfather met their unfortunate accident (and a few years in foster care), and with the hefty insurance settlement, Mal was pretty much set up for life. His goal was to destroy one school each year until he graduated. Beacon Hills would be his fourth and last school. Then he would take his show on the road.

By the time he had hit his third web search and gleaned all the relevant information the Internet had to offer on Hale, Mal was hooked. He had to get to know Derek Hale better. Family mostly dead? Uncle in a hospital with severe burns? Sister torn in half? Arson? Animal attacks? He was into some crazy shit, that was for sure. Finding the location of the house, Mal grabbed up one of his favorite tools and stuck it into his bag; a police issue listening device that could pick up a conversation from 500 feet away. Mal's father had been a policeman, and a great one, killed in the line of duty when Mal was seven. His stepfather was a cop too, but the only thing he was good at was getting drunk and beating the crap out of his wife and stepson. Mal used to think of him as the Bag Bad Wolf from the Three Little Pigs. "Let me in, let me in.'. His mother had let him in. And then he, in his own way, started to eat them.

One day when Mal was 11, a miserable and scared kid if there ever was one, he stepped into his small bathroom. He lived in the basement of his house, the adults two floors up. They never came down here since Mal was forced to move off their floor of the large dwelling. Guess his stepfather didn't want Mal to hear all the screaming. It was a finished basement, and nice enough, but it gave him the feeling of being in a dungeon, cut off from the parts of the house that mattered.

Switching on the bathroom light, he looked around, puzzled. There were yellowish stains all over the walls, the floor. There was a strange but familiar odor too. Naïve as he was, it took him almost 30 seconds to figure out what his stepfather had done.

"Oh, no he didn't…" Mal said aloud, in denial of the disgusting truth. The sheer animal cruelty of the act stunned him. This is what fucking wolves did, for Christ's sake. His stepfather had gone into the little bathroom…and _marked his territory._

In his mind, something snapped…and went dead. It might have been his soul. What years of abuse could not do was accomplished now in a single moment. A coldness settled over him. That bastard was going to pay. Mal had done nothing to earn this treatment, and he wasn't going to stand for it. Not from him, not from anyone, not anymore.

A trip to the library's automobile section gave Mal a working knowledge of modern brake systems. Mal did not check any books out, or do computer searches. Those could be traced. He selected the right tool from the workshop at home and sabotaged the brake lines in his stepfather's police cruiser. Rather than meet his end during a high speed chase as Mal had expected, both parents were killed at the bottom of their steep and curving driveway, the car flipping over several times. That his mother was in the car affected him not at all. She married him, she put up with him and failed to protect her own son. Mal would no longer suffer due to her bad decisions.

Three years later in foster care (Mal was 14), Mal was picked on by a school bully. Just some shovies, nothing personal. Mal avoided the kid for three months (to keep him from making any connection between Mal and what was to follow), then reported to the gym teacher that the boy had 'touched him in a weird way' while they were changing in the locker room. Mr. Grant had no idea what to do with this information, but Mal explained to him (with hitching breath and flowing tears) that the bully had done it to other kids and they were all afraid to come forward. Mal swore he would run away if the teacher told anyone. He refused to fill out reports. Mal explained that he had gone to Grant because he looked up to him and trusted him, and could he please find another way to handle it.

"What do you think I should do?" asked the 40 year old man of the 14 year old boy.

"His family is pretty conservative, and would probably appreciate the chance to handle this at home. Call his parents and let them stop him; if he does it again then I'll come forward and talk to whoever you want."

The whole next week, the offending bully was not seen in school. Enough time to put Phase II into operation. Mal 'acquired' a bunch of adult magazines featuring male models. Another handy book on lock picking (with lots of practice over the past few weeks) let him stash the magazines in other boy's locker, poised to fall out when he opened them. Everything was handled with gloves to prevent fingerprints.

When the bully returned to school, looking shell-shocked, he opened his locker surrounded by roughly a dozen kids during the early morning classroom rush. Out came the magazines. The gossip began that day, the beatings a day or two later, only ending a few years down the road when the bully drew himself a bath and slashed his wrists in it. Mal, expecting this, smiled faintly when he looked it up on the Internet.

Mal was not homophobic, but the people in this particular hick town were, and so he had used it to his advantage. And that was when his new plans and goals solidified. He would destroy one set of lives after another. No longer a victim, he would be the ultimate predator, free of the things that kept humans weak. Guilt, remorse, anxiety…and a conscience. The only thing that he was able to hold on to, the only shred of morality left, was that his victims had to attack him first.

After school, when Scott and Stiles took off in Stiles' Jeep (Stiles complaining that he had lost his phone somewhere) Mal followed them on a bicycle he purchased on the way back from lunch, one made for dirt roads. He actually did have a car, but engine noise would give him away.

When he spotted them in the distance standing by the burned house, Mal parked the bike and set up the microphone.

"Scott, you have to finish your training. Stop worrying about Allison Argent and her goddamned Hunter family and focus on getting control of yourself. You won't be any good to her otherwise, and might even be a danger! Not to mention the Alpha running around loose. He could come for you at any time."

Scott growled.

"Why did this freaking happen to me! I never wanted to be a damn werewolf!"

Mal almost stumbled, and a twig broke under his foot. What the hell? _Werewolf?_

_They heard you, and they're coming._ The dark inner voice that had helped him through the years to carry out his crimes and avoid capture insisted this was true, despite the fact that it should have been humanly impossible for them to hear that small snap. The voice gave him the insights into the people and the world around him that so disturbed Scott. He never failed to heed it.

Mal quickly shoved the microphone in his knapsack and zipped it shut, then unzipped his own pants and let loose a steady stream at the tree when Derek, Stiles and Scott ran up. He pretended to be startled, and made a show of zipping up quickly.

"Mal, what the hell are you doing here?" asked Scott. His eyes almost seemed to glow a feral yellow color.

Mal, who would no more have arrived without a backup excuse than Jackson arrive at school without hair product, pulled Stiles' cell phone out of his pocket (picked up when he went to see Lydia) and handed it over to him.

"I picked up your cell phone. You left it behind. Lydia might be calling you soon." All of these statements were true, and so neither werewolf picked up anything irregular about Mal's heartbeat. Mal had long ago learned this manner of speaking, though he had no idea that it saved himself from being caught just now.

"Did you hear anything? That was a private conversation." said Derek bluntly.

Mal looked at him.

"I just heard myself pissing against this tree a moment ago. Are people usually able to hear conversations from this far away?" Again, no change in hearbeat. Derek relaxed.

"Do me a favor. Don't piss in my forest. I don't like it." Derek walked off.

"I'm sorry guys. I'll mind my own business next time." Scott and Stiles rolled their eyes at the retreating Derek, before turning back to Mal.

"Ah, don't mind him. You should see him on his off days." Stiles put in.

"I'll see you at school." With a false air of hurt, Mal got on his bike and rode towards home.

When Scott and Stiles returned to Derek, he was frowning at the retreating figure.

"Who is that kid?" he asked.

"Malcolm Drake. He's new. He's a really nice guy." Stiles was feeling mildly annoyed at Derek for chasing his new friend away.

"I don't like him. He smells…different than the other kids. Don't trust him."

"Derek, I can hear a lie as well as you. He told the truth just now." growled Scott.

Derek watched until Mal had disappeared completely, then went up the stairs and shut himself into his house.

"Nice talking to you!" called Stiles.

{}{}{}

When Mal got back to his house, he pondered this new information.

Werewolves? Did he believe it?

After some more Internet searches (far more effective ones than Stiles had used) he stockpiled a cache of information that was supposed to be the truest account of these legendary creatures.

"Hmmmm…Mountain Ash….Aconitum, or wolfsbane…silver weapons…super healing? Ancient Hunter family…Argent….ARGENT?"

Another search on the Argents confirmed his thought. Allison Argent was from a family of Hunters. And Scott, a werewolf, was in love with her.

"What a tool." Mal murmured. Why did people insist on embarking on doomed relationships? Was there not enough misery in the world? He chuckled.

Could this really be true? They _had_ heard him from so far away. Super hearing? That was bad news. He had been really lucky today. That yellow glow in Scott's eyes…

Mal began to laugh. It got louder and louder, bordering on the edge of hysteria.

"Werewolves!" Just when he had the world figured out, it threw him another curveball. He had to admire it. This would be his biggest challenge.

Mal raided the police computer files, and combined that with the lore on werewolves. Every family had an Alpha, who was the leader and the only one who could transmit the condition with a bite. Derek Hale, and his uncle Peter were the only surviving members of the family. It followed logic that the uncle must be the Alpha. Derek had also as much confirmed that neither he nor Scott were Alphas. If it was the uncle, why would they worry about him attacking, and why would he bite Scott? To get a Pack? To go after the Argents? The dead people the police were currently investigating all seemed to have a connection to the fire. This was definitely a revenge thing. It had to be the uncle.

Mal left again, this time taking his car. He had some preparations to make, and then he was going to pay a little visit to Peter Hale.


	3. Chapter 3

Mal was admitted by a rather pretty nurse to see Peter Hale. Peter sat in a wheelchair, burns covering most of his face on one side.

"Peter Hale, I presume?" asked Mal. He zipped up his red hoody jacket, pulling the hood over his head so that his face was in shadow.

The blue eyes stared straight ahead.

Mal got down in front of him until he was staring right into those eyes.

They flickered the barest amount to meet his gaze. That instant told Mal everything he needed to know. Not only was Peter the Alpha, but like Mal himself…he was dead inside.

Mal sat back in a free chair, as Peter slowly turned to look at him. The communication had been mutual. Their kind always knew each other.

"What do you want, boy?" came the low voice.

"To figure what how someone like me could help you. I know much of your story already." He said quietly. "You are very lucky. All the pieces are out there, but so far no one has put them together. Not your brain-dead recruit Scott McCall, nor your brooding and intense nephew who thinks he can solve any problem with a Glare."

Peter smiled, impressed, despite himself. Nothing could deter him from his mission, and likely the boy would have to be silenced…but the fact that there was no fear smell at all coming from him, and that he already knew everything…and no lying detected…gave him pause.

"Why should I want your help?" asked Peter.

"Because, I am smart. That is a rare thing in this town. All of its buses should be short ones."

"Well, lets see how smart you are." Peter lunged out of his chair, his features contorting into the monstrous mutant wolf countenance of the Alpha.

Five scythe-like claws whipped out and slashed across the front of Mal's jacket. There was a bright flash and a sizzling burning smell.

Peter sank back into his chair, cradling his singed and human hand.

"Now, that was naughty." Said Mal, not having moved an inch. He was untouched by the attack.

"Let me guess. Mountain Ash. You filled the lining of your jacket with chips." Said Peter drily. He was very impressed. The kid _was_ smart.

"Correct in one. Lined my sweatpants with it too. I expected some sort of test."

"What's your name?" asked Peter.

"Malcolm Drake. Call me Mal."

"Ah. In many languages, that translates to bad…or evil."

"I am aware of that."

"What do you want? Really? What do you think you will get out of this?"

Mal leaned forward, and a rare spark of emotion burned in his eyes.

"I want to learn from you. There are no teachers for this kind of thing you can just go look up in the phone book. You have been a predator your whole life. I want to know how wolves think, how they select their prey. I only have a human awareness. There are things that can't be learned by oneself."

Peter nodded. "There are things that cannot be taught at all. Only experienced. Like how to hear the lie in someone's heartbeat. With the bite, you _could_ learn these things for yourself. You would have the wolf inside you. Do you want it?"

For the first time, Mal looked uncertain. He turned away and stared out into the darkening sky. He felt that Peter was restless to leave, to carry out further plans. Turning back, one hand lightly grazed the zipper of his protective jacket…and zipped it up tight.

Peter looked at him, saying nothing.

"I can't help but think that you might still view me as a threat, and kill me the moment I am vulnerable. When I have helped you, and shown you my worth…when I have learned from you and decided I can trust you…ask me again. Also, I have a promise I want to keep to myself while I am still me. I mean no disrespect."

"None taken. A wise course of action. If you _had_ believed me right away, I would have known you to be a fool. I have no use for fools. Except as a replacement for this terrible hospital food, of course. Now, what can you tell me that will assist me in my planning?"

"Scott fights with Derek and his condition. He sees it as standing in the way of his life with…Allison Argent. If you had her, he would be your puppet." Mal saw no surprise in Peter's face, so he continued. "Stiles Stilinski would have made a better choice for your little Army than Scott. He feels overshadowed by Scott, and jealous deep down of his friend's new abilities. I am not sure you could get him to kill, however. Even better choices are Jackson Whitmore and Lydia Martin. They are jealous if someone has a piece of gum. I see them squabbling to earn your approval, trying to be the best werewolf, the best killer."

"Hmmm Jackson, Lydia. They are a couple?"

"In the loosest sense of the word."

"Predicted reactions to the bite?" Somehow, he knew Mal could answer this.

"Lydia would adapt. Its her nature. Perhaps too well, she might be unpredictable. Jackson…if he were shown the gifts ahead of time, he would come to you and beg for it. On his knees. He is the best choice if you want to recruit anyone else."

"Pictures and addresses." demanded Peter. "Get them to me by tonight."

"I have them now. Also some clothing items I filched from their lockers and sealed in plastic bags. You can track them by scent. Let me prep Jackson.; he has a grudge with me now. If I set up an intro with you, he may forgive it which will make it safer for me. I can have him here by Thursday evening."

For the first time in over 6 years, Peter Hale smiled. With the burn scars, it made a frightening picture.

"Don't fail me, Mal."

"I _don't_ fail. Have you seen my report cards?"

Later that week, after Jackson confronted Scott about where he got his 'juice', Jackson noticed Mal slouching against the lockers smirking.

"Have you got a problem, geek?" he snarled.

"Yes. My problem is that I can answer all of the questions you have about Scott and even help you get on even ground with him. But…you've been rude. So, goodbye."

Mal turned and walked down the hall.

Jackson stood for a second, torn, between his dislike for the kid and his overwhelming need to reestablish his dominance over Scott and the team. Then, he took off after Mal.

He grabbed Mal's shoulder, only to have the other boy flinch away with surprising violence. He grabbed Jackson's throat with amazing force and snarled in a way that would have made Derek Hale proud while slamming him into the lockers. Jackson was suddenly actually afraid. He banged his head pretty hard.

"_Don't… ever… touch me!"_ He drew his other fist back and slammed it into the locker next to Jackson's head, denting it. Blood dripped from his knuckles; he seemed not to notice.

Calming himself with a visible effort, and trying to rearrange his features into something resembling a human expression, Mal took his hand off of a terrified Jackson's throat.

"Jackson. Believe it or not, I want to help you. We started off in the wrong foot, and I am trying to fix that. We can't talk here. Our friend is exceptionally keen of hearing…that is one of his many new abilities. Let's get in that fancy car of yours, and go on a little trip. On the way, I can tell you all about it."

Jackson nodded his head, rubbing the sore spot.

Mal inwardly felt contempt. Always the same with these types, deep down they want someone to take control.

They got into Jackson's silver Porsche and pulled out onto the road to the highway.

"Now what I am about to tell you may be hard to believe Jackson, but I saw it with my own eyes."

Jackson glanced at him nervously.

"What? What is it?"

"Scott McCall is a werewolf."

Jackson hit the brakes.

"Are you high?" he asked in a shrill voice.

"No. Drugs are for losers, along with alcohol, cigarettes, fast food and porn. Let's just say I'm straight-edge." Mal chuckled to himself.

"There are no such things." Said Jackson.

"A few days ago I would have agreed with you. C'mon, you haven't noticed McCall's eyes glow yellow when he's pissed? His aggression problem? His strength, speed, agility? All of which appeared overnight? His bizarre behavior? He's struggling with it Jackson, he isn't ready for it. He's weak. You are strong, I can see it. If it were given to you, you would know what to do with it. And tonight…if you want it…it can be yours. Super healing, all senses on maximum overdrive…boy will I envy you."

Jackson pondered this in silence. "Say…I believed you. How are you going to give it to me? Do you know a werewolf?"

Mal nodded. "That's who we are going to see. He asked me to bring him likely recruits, and you were the first one I thought of." Mal gave him directions to get on the turnoff to the hospital.

"See, Jackson, a nice public place. He's here. No funny stuff. And for making this introduction, I ask only one small favor."

"What is it?"

"You continue to treat me with respect, and never…ever…attack me. I am not a werewolf, but you will not succeed. Don't get cocky, Jackson. You have too much potential to do great things with this power to waste it by showing off with me or some other hapless nerd or on the Lacrosse field. The key is to keep a low profile. And even if you don't piss me off and force me to cut your goddamn wolfish head off, there are others who watch for the creatures…and hunt them to a painful death. Should anything ever happen to me, they will receive a picture of you and all of your personal information. They will…never…stop coming for you. Are we agreed?"

Jackson nodded his head. "Yes."

Mal smiled. "Good. Let's go up."

Mal zipped up his hoody that he wore every day now, and led Jackson to Peter Hale's room. The nurse gave a sly wink and shut the door behind them.

Jackson's face cringed in disgust as he took in Peter's burned features. "I thought you said these guys have super healing."

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a disguise of sorts. Mal here, tells me you want the bite. Is he correct?"

Jackson, more scared now than ever, nodded his head yes.

"Roll up your sleeve."

Jackson hesitated, then obeyed slowly. He held it out to Peter. Mal approached with a ketchup packet that he tore open and squeezed onto Jackson's wrist.

"I'm touched, Mal." Said Peter, chuckling.

Jackson's face was dead white as he looked at his ketchup covered arm. He was a hair from pulling back and running out of the room when Mal caught him from behind in a full nelson, long enough for Peter's face to _change_ into…something out of his worst nightmare. The great beast clamped onto the wrist and worked its jaws in deep. Jackson tried to destroy the hospital with his screams.


	4. Chapter 4

When Jackson's arm was bandaged by the nurse (obviously Peter's accomplice…Mal wondered if she was promised the bite as well) some smelling salts brought him around. He screamed and lurched backward when he saw Peter Hale wiping his mouth with a napkin. It was stained red, from ketchup…or something else.

Jackson looked down at his arm and rubbed at the bandage. Then he looked at Mal.

"What now?" he asked. Any sense of control over his life was gone. He would likely need to be given commands for the rest of his life.

"Now you take me to my car. Perhaps by tomorrow you will have turned. Or died." Mal yawned.

"What?" Jackson shrieked.

"Didn't Mal mention that? You could turn…or you could die. I'm betting you turn. Goodnight boys, I'm rather tired." Peter yawned too.

Mal dragged Jackson from the room, still sputtering, and put his hand out when they reached the car.

"Keys." There was no argument. They got in the car, and drove back to the school where Mal sent Jackson home.

Entering the dark silence of his bedroom, he undressed and dropped onto his bed, contemplating. Peter Hale had plans, but so did Mal. If they could cooperate, all well and good. But Mal was pretty sure that Peter would need to be put down before all of this was over. And he knew just the people to do it. He wondered if Peter suspected treachery. He was an old wily wolf, so probably… though Mal knew he had not detected any lies. And as long as Mal planned for it, he had the advantage.

The Book of Five Rings, a warriors guide to life and one that had helped shape his personal philosophy stated that you must see everything while appearing to see nothing. Then could you strike down your enemies unawares. It was a good book.

He slept, and dreamt his usual dream. A descent down a long and dark stairway, leading into total blackness. Something waited for him at the bottom. Something with teeth and claws. In his dream, Mal smiled and went to meet it.

The next morning, he left for school in his car, driving over to Jackson's house, the Beacon Hills equivalent of Wayne Manor. A knock on the door revealed Jackson's mother, who gestured him inside.

"Jack!" she called. "Company!"

Jackson waited for him in the living room. He looked healthy, though he still wore the bandage.

"Take it off." Mal pointed at it.

Jackson pulled off the bandage, and seemed unable to comprehend the unbroken skin beneath.

"Something on your mind, Jackie-boy?"

"What have I done? There's no taking it back."

"Yeah, that is true for many things in life. Don't tell me I popped your 'outside the box' cherry. You always struck me as…the experimental sort."

"What are you talking about? I feel like you just raped me with words."

Mal laughed out loud at that. "Now you've popped mine, people don't usually make me laugh. Don't regret, Jackson, adapt. When you see what comes with this, you'll be fine."

"From now on, anything I do well will be meaningless. I'll feel like I cheated."

"Who gives a fuck. Get over it. Lets go to school. Remember, play it cool, or Scott will have you figured out in a flash. Hell, maybe you guys can sense each other. I never thought to ask Peter. Regardless, you can never tell anyone what my part in this was. And both Scott and Derek Hale will be able to hear it if you lie. So be careful. Best to stay out of their way altogether."

"Why did you do this to me?"

Mal stared at him. "You walked all the way into the hospital room with me, but I did this to you?"

"I changed my mind at the last second."

"Duh, that's why I grabbed you."

"And what was with the ketchup?"

"My sick sense of humor. Just trying to lighten the mood. Have you tried it out yet?"

Jackson shook his head.

Mal rolled his eyes and put his face in his hands. Jackson Whitmore, ultimate predator. Ultimate tool, more like.

"C'mon, Jackass."

"It's Jackson."

"Let's go! After school, we can go abuse your powers somewhere."

"I have practice."

"My god, does Lydia put a pillow over your face when she's screwing you? Or just a ball-gag? You are ruining my wood for the day."

"Don't talk about Lydia like that." Muttered Jackson, a hint of growl coming into his voice.

"Jackson, she can't stand you. Trust me. You flunk out or stop being captain, and you will be dust in the wind. _And you know it._"

This news did nothing to enhance Jackson's mood, but he did get up and grab his jacket and knapsack.

Since Jackson was at practice, Mal decided to set up some of the other pieces in his little game. Soon, he was at the Argent's house. He rang the bell. A bordering on thirty dishy type opened the door.

"Hello, I'm here to-" Mal's eyes widened. So did hers.

_'Damn it! How many goddamn players were there in this town?'_

He changed tactics immediately.

"-talk to someone about killing some werewolves."

Her assessment of him was no less invasive than he of hers. They both knew what they were…and knew that the other knew also.

"You're a bit young for the killing games." She said dryly. The waves of 'Sarah Connor' from the terminator were pouring off of her. She was almost as dangerous as Peter.

"I have plenty of experience." Mal held his gaze level, and if she was any good at lie detecting, she'd know it was the truth.

"Come in." she stood aside. Mal had to remember to burn these clothes lest Peter smell any of them on him. This was a very dangerous game, which made him want to win it all the more.

They sat down on the couch in the spacious living room. If there were any other occupants in the home, they were not within earshot. Mal had to assume that every word was being recorded somehow.

"You know there is an Alpha in town." Mal began.

"Yes, and at least 2 Betas. Do you know who the Alpha is?" she asked intently.

"I have been doing research on that." Mal said with perfect truth. "If I find out more than I know now, I'll tell you."

"Why are you here, then?"

"The Alpha is…recruiting. I think there may be a third Beta, and there will be more over the next few weeks. Without you knowing his identity, it will be very hard to figure out a motive for doing this except the obvious. He's building a pack. Wolves do that when the prey-"

"-is too big to take down on their own. I know that. Hmm…recruiting, huh? Any ideas who they are?"

"I'll work this week on compiling a list for you."

"You never answer my questions with a yes or no. So I will ask this and I want a yes or no answer. Do you wish to see the werewolves die?" Her eyes were like lasers boring into Mal.

"Absolutely, and without a doubt, yes." Along with everyone else.

"Very good. I plan to annihilate every last one of them. Get that list to me, and see if you can find out the name of the Alpha. Do that, and we'll adopt you into the freaking family."

"And I would try to prove myself to you just like I did with my family."

"Here is my personal cell. Don't communicate with Allison or her parents. Just me, Kate."

Hmm. Definitely a maverick, and she had a woody for the werewolves. Mal suddenly began wondering about the unsolved arson attempt. From what Mal read, it had been a professional job, one that leaves no trace of a cause. Probably chemical. She didn't strike Mal as the scientific type, she would have gone to someone. The only chemical expert Mal knew of in this burg was Mr. Harris. He was way too dorky for her…not that she wouldn't use feminine wiles to get what she wanted. If it was her, Peter Hale would be a very happy werewolf if he got his claws into her. The pieces were setting up better than he had hoped. Soon, this town would be in the epicenter of an interspecies bloodbath.

"Got it. And Kate, thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me to have someone like you help me with my plans."

She smiled. "Likewise."

Mal left the house, whistling.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N – Sorry for the huge delay…got sidetracked with so many other stories, and it took me a while to get my head back into Mal's character, not to mention time to puzzle out what his big plan consists of…but I think I have it all in my mind now. I will try to get updates out much more quickly. Sorry for the short chapter.**_

At school the next day, Mal made his plans while paying half-attention to the lesson on the finer points of the periodic table of elements.

"And who can tell us what the defining quality of a noble gas is? Who will provide me with the wrong answer this time…Edwards?"

Edwards was fast asleep, and too groggy to filter his usual smartass remarks. "It's when a king farts." The class laughed.

"Detention…I already filled out the card before class, here you go, you may gather your things and head down to see the principal…and now let's go to a student who might actually make himself famous one day…Drake!"

Stiles, Scott, Jackson, and Allison stared openly at Mal, while Lydia pretended to be more interested in powdering her nose.

"A noble gas has enough electrons to completely fill its outer shell, making it highly resistant to forming bonds with other elements; since it retains its unique qualities despite the influence of the common elements all around it, it is viewed as 'superior' or 'noble'."

Stiles shook his head in awe, while Scott scowled. Allison beamed at him, then turned to Lydia and whispered something in her ear. Jackson just glared at him.

Harris nodded, pleased. "An excellent and absolutely correct answer. Mal, there is no point in forcing you to sit through a tedious mid-term. Keep this up and I'll exempt you from the final exam as well."

Mal smiled, the long unused muscles twitching in surprise. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that." Too bad the school likely wouldn't be around long enough for mid-terms.

"Kiss-ass." muttered Edwards as he stalked by Mal's desk. He reached one hand over to sweep Mal's books onto the floor as he walked by. Mal (who of course had been expecting this) stuck his foot out and tripped the bigger boy who promptly fell to the floor, smacking his head loudly into the corner of Mal's desk on the way down. He lay there unconscious and bleeding while Mal stared down at him.

Harris turned back around and glared at Edwards before picking up the intercom handset on the wall. "Stupid lout, even walking's too much for his tiny mind. Mal, you aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, Sir. I'm feeling pretty good."

Mal sidled up to Harris after class. The chemistry teacher had shown a liking for Mal (the first teacher in a very long time to have done so) since Mal was one of the few students that showed aptitude for the subject of chemistry. Mal liked that the teacher recognized his talent and held him up as an example to the rest of the class. Maybe he would see to it that Harris survived…hell, from the vibes he was getting, the bitter fuck might even help Mal with his plans. This town just got better and better, what a freaking cast of characters!

"Mr. Harris…can I get your opinion on something?" Mal looked intently into Harris' eyes.

"Of course, son. What can I do for the brightest student I've seen in my entire career, and makes me proud to be a teacher?"

Mal's mouth opened and shut in surprise at this unexpected compliment, and he reeled that the teacher had called him 'son'. He quickly recovered.

"There's a girl in class…she's really pretty, and she keeps flirting with me and asking to study together. I know I'm…a bookish-looking type. If she's really into me, I'd say yes, but I have the feeling she's just using me to get a good grade in the class. What should I do?"

Harris looked at Mal a long time, and Mal wondered if the teacher saw through the ruse. Then he blinked and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

"You know, Drake, you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age. One day, you'll meet a woman who appreciates everything you are…but I'd spare you some of the pain that I went through if I could. A beautiful woman once threw herself at me simply to gain knowledge of chemistry that most street thugs master by the time they're fifteen. She used that information to commit a crime I nearly got blamed for. Use this mystery girl in class and discard her if you must, but you make her pay for every bone you throw her…in advance. If you know what's good for you, you won't let yourself get emotionally involved. Will you take my advice?"

Mal nodded. "In a way, I already have. Thank you. You've been very helpful."

Harris nodded, obvious pain in his eyes. "I always knew you were a bright student." He gave Mal a gentle pat on the shoulder, and Mal surprised himself by not flinching. Harris grabbed his books and left. Mal stood there, watching him go. Damn, this town was fucked up, and it was fucking with his own head too. The people at the other schools…it was like they weren't real, just cardboard cut-outs that were too crudely made to fool the dullest child. In Beacon Hills, he was finding kindred spirits everywhere making him begin to doubt for the first time if he really wanted to go through with this.

The class door slammed. Scott McCall stood there glaring at Mal. "If this 'mystery girl' is Allison…then you better stay away from her."

Oh yeah. He really wanted to go through with this.

"It isn't, Scott. Didn't I tell you I wasn't romantically or sexually interested in anyone at this school? _You know_ I am telling the truth."

Scott cocked an ear, and seemed to be listening intently. A puzzled look came onto his face.

"Yeah…you are. That's the weird thing. Why were you quizzing Harris about what to do with girls? Anything _he_ knows came out of a book."

Mal thought a second, then decided to take a gamble.

"If you were listening to him as carefully as you were to my heartbeat a moment ago, then you'd realize Harris as much admitted to me that it was Kate Argent who started the fire at the Hale house and killed that whole family of werewolves."

Scott turned white in shock at Mal's words. "You know about that?"

Mal walked up to Scott, and for all that Scott's eyes were glowing amber and that he sported the beginnings of fangs and claws, he was the one that backed up against the wall.

"What did I tell you, Scott? I am _really_ good at figuring people out. And I know something else too…the identity of the Alpha. His human identity."

"How…" Scott lost the ability to speak.

A new voice startled them both.

"I don't give a shit _how_ you know it…but I want to hear that name."

Derek Hale stood by the windows, obviously having just climbed through despite the fact that they were on the second floor. His leather jacketed arms were folded tightly across his chest, and he definitely looked like he was straining his glaring muscles to the limit.

"Not now. But very soon."

Derek pushed away from the wall and stalked towards Mal, his eyes flashing a brilliant blue.

"Tell me, or I will rip your throat out…with-"

Mal rolled his eyes. "Oh fucking spare me, Fonzie. Do I _smell_ scared to you? You think I'm one of your little cubs that you can scare the shit out of with a look or slam into the wall when you feel like it? Guess again. You are not ready to hear it. I will tell you when the time is right. I have no allegiance to the Alpha and wish to see him dead for reasons of my own, and will be glad to help you kill him. And with my help, you will succeed. Am I telling the truth?"

Derek was more surprised at Mal's response than at anything else in his life. He had to admit it…the kid was telling the truth and did not fear Derek in the slightest. He had Alpha potential.

"Yes." The older Beta's eyes were wide and uncertain…although his claws twitched with eagerness and the fangs were grinding together something frightful.

"Good. Then stay out of my way until I'm ready to tell you. Or kill me…that is, _try_ to. If you succeed, then you never find out what I know. If you fail, well that would lead to an interesting situation."

Mal turned and walked to the door. "Move, Scott."

Scott backed off and Mal left the class room.

Derek and Scott looked at each other.

"We need to find out more about this kid. I still don't trust him, and I'm beginning to think that he may be more dangerous than the Alpha. We need to do some digging that he won't detect, and we need someone to do it that he hasn't had direct contact with yet. Any ideas?"

Scott thought for a second. "Yeah. One name springs to mind. I'll call him."


	6. Chapter 6

Lydia had been crying in her car for nearly a half hour when Stiles found her. His heart broke, and he felt a burning desire to bang on her window and beg her to tell him what was wrong so he could fix it…but Mal's advice burned in his head, at odds with his every instinct. Show her that you cared, show her the heart on your sleeve, and she would _eat_ it.

But he couldn't do _nothing._

He took a deep breath and strolled over to the car. He would ask her what was wrong, but play it cool. Yeah, that was the ticket.

"Hey Lydia, you ok?" he asked, trying to sound bored.

"God, Stiles leave me alone!" she snapped at him.

A sliver of anger lanced through his mind, though whether at was at her (for being her usual self) or him (for being an idiot) he couldn't tell.

_Mal was right…as usual._

"Whatever." Stiles said it as coldly as he possibly could, then walked off.

"Stiles, wait!" she called after him.

'God, why was Mal so right about her?' he wondered to himself. Mal would probably advise him to keep on walking, show her he was not someone to cast idly to the side…but he wouldn't be who he was if he did that.

Stiles turned back towards her. "Yeah?"

"Can…can we talk?" she seemed hesitant, uncertain…an expression he had never seen on her. He didn't even think she had the necessary facial muscles to do it.

"Okay." He moved to the passenger door, and she snapped at him again. "Not in the _car_! What would people think?"

Stiles was getting a feel for the game now…he began to see the patterns that Mal kept telling him were all around him. It was almost like that kids game where you had to sneak forward without the leader actually seeing you move. If you jumped the gun, you got penalized. If you played it slow and safe, you eventually reached the goal. He had to press forward…without seeming to.

"Can't be any worse than what people _already_ think of you, Lydia. And since when do you give a shit? Guess you aren't as confident and aloof as you think you are. Call me when you find the right spot to talk. I might even still care by then."

He turned his back on her for the second time.

"STILES!" she shrieked. When he turned back, he was alarmed at what he saw. The uncertainty had progressed to pure terror. She bawled and screamed as if her entire life were a rug that had just been pulled from underneath her.

Stiles walked back over to the car and tried the passenger door. It was locked. He rapped the glass once, sharply, and Lydia clicked the lock open. He got in. This was why Jackson was such an ass to her all the time…it was the only thing she responded to.

"OK, I'm here. Now what's wrong? The short version, please." He pasted an annoyed expression on his face.

"Jackson…he…he dumped me!" The tears were out of control. Stiles ached to put his arm around her. He fought down the urge savagely.

"Jackson…is a jerk. He cares more about his hair than he does about you or anyone else, Lydia. Everyone knew that from Day 1. You're smarter than any twenty students put together, why can't you see that?"

"He's _not_ a jerk! _You're_ the one who's - " she stopped as Stiles' eyes blazed with anger. " – always saying that!" she finished lamely.

"Bullshit. You girls are all the same. You ignore the nice guys because there's nothing for you to do with them. Your work is finished. What you want is to find a total bleeding asshole and _transform_ him into a Prince! It's like you want to be Dr. Freaking Frankenstein! But you never learn that guys _never_ transform! The nice guys will stay nice, and the jerks will stay jerks. What you need to think about is why you even _want_ such a jerk." A cold voice that Stiles had never heard in his mind before suddenly asked a frightening question. _'Stiles, why do you want HER?'_  
>Lydia was looking at him in amazement. "You transformed. You used to be a nice guy. What happened?"<p>

This time, Stiles didn't have to fake the bitterness and anger in his voice. "Nice guys finish last, Lydia. I've _had_ it. If assholes finish first, then damn it, I'm gonna be the biggest…you know what? Let me not even finish that sentence."

Lydia started giggling, and that got Stiles going too. They sat there laughing for a few minutes before falling into an awkward silence. They stared out the windshield into the slowly deepening dusk.

Then: "You're different. More confident. It's kind of attractive." Lydia said, blushing. Stiles' heart was racing. He was close to the goal, so _very _close."

"Thanks." he said, crushing his impulse to compliment her back. In fact, he was wondering if the compliment would have been sincere if he _had_ spoken it aloud. Another tremor ran through him. Lydia's golden goddess glow had faded from his vision, and now she was just a girl…a very beautiful girl, and highly intelligent to be sure…but a human girl nonetheless. It was as if he had poured some of the fire of his passion _into_ her, so that it burned less brightly for him even as it gained brightness for her. If he pursued her, it would not be an Immortal Love of the Ages…just ordinary love.

And as he suffered this realization, Lydia pulled his face to hers, and kissed him.

_Written in Stiles' notebook that very day in English Literature class, a line from Robert Browning: 'A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or else what's Heaven for?' Months afterward, Stiles would stumble across this scrawled bit of wisdom. As he read it, he would think back to this very moment with perfect understanding._

{}{}{}{}

Scott and Derek stood behind Danny and watched as the handsome teenager worked his magic.

"His dad was a cop killed in the line of duty. His mother and stepfather were killed in a car accident…the record says the brakes failed. He was emancipated, and has a ton of money from insurance policies. Let's see…wow, he's been to three different high schools. Beacon Hills is his fourth. Nothing out of the ordinary in the records. The counselor at his school said he was really well-adjusted for a kid his age."

Scott was peering at the records. "Why do all those high schools sound familiar?"

Derek glanced closely at them. "There were a bunch of shootings between rival gangs at that first one. It was all over the news. Nearly a hundred students were killed or injured. Both gangs claimed the other started it.

"The second had that rash of suicides…all these girls killed themselves, leaving suicide notes claiming their boyfriends had cheated on them with their best friends. They called it the Valentine's Day Tragedy." said Danny.

"The third was in the news because all of the sports teams lost players…there was rampant steroid use and a bunch of guys died when they got a bad batch. Look, all three schools were closed…the year after Mal attended." Scott pointed out.

The two werewolves and the human shivered involuntarily.

"Derek, if this _was_ Mal's doing, what do you think he has planned for Beacon Hills?" asked Scott.

All the color drained out of Derek's face as the answer came to him. "We are so _fucked._"

{}{}{}{}

Lydia left Stiles by his Jeep, and he watched her drive away with a goofy smile on his face. It had worked. He and Lydia had gotten over that ridiculously awkward first step and were now officially dating. They had exchanged numbers (although Stiles had her number for years thanks to his police connection) and were going to go on a date that weekend.

He saw Mal coming out of the school and talking on his cell phone. Stiles ran up to him, and Mal instantly closed the phone and stuck it in his pocket.

"Stiles, what's up-" Mal was stunned into silence as the hyperactive teen threw his arms around him and squeezed him tightly.

"Mal, old buddy old pal of mine…it worked! Everything you said, worked! Lydia and I…well, we have a date, and I owe it all to you! You are the best! I love you, man!"

Mal remained standing there, frozen. Half of him wanted to throw Stiles to the ground and leap on him, beating him to a bloody pulp. The other half…well, the other half wanted to return the hug, congratulate Stiles and slap him on the back. He even had a brief vision of them playing video games together, or going out for pizza…like any normal kids. The two impulses were so evenly matched that Mal felt he was standing on the edge of a knife, and any sudden movement might send him plummeting off either side.

"Stilinski! Are you attacking Mr. Drake?" came a stern voice. The two turned towards Mr. Harris, who was walking to his car.

Mal suddenly felt very defensive of Stiles. He knew Harris loved to target him, and Mal wanted to stop it.

"No, Mr. Harris, I helped him out with something and he was just thanking me. Actually we are pretty good friends."

Mr. Harris nodded approvingly. "Good to see you are picking a better class of friend, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles choked on his tongue. Harris _never_ called him 'Mr.'.

"Stick with Drake, and you'll go places." Harris continued as got in and started the engine.

"Bye, Mr. Harris." both boys said in unison.

Stiles turned to Mal. "That was the first time that guy treated me like a human being…and it was because he saw me with you. You're like the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You ever need anything from me, you let me know." Stiles got into his own Jeep and drove off.

Mal stared after him. Deep inside the black stain that passed for Mal's soul…something tore open with terrible force.


End file.
